Haven
by Lethe Erisdottir
Summary: Headquarters is history, the Turks are homeless.  And Reno is looking for home...again.  Currently a one-shot, may develop into more.


**DISCLAIMER**: All characters and the world they live in belong to S/E. Words belong to me.

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Haven

It's always dark down the alley behind Seventh Heaven, even during the daytime. At night it's like the seventh level of hell, only, well, darker. But if you wanted to smoke, this is where you came; Tifa had laid down the law, and she wasn't above enforcing it. Even with his electromag rod, he wasn't sure he wanted to challenge her, especially not on her own ground. Besides, challenge Tifa, you got Chocobo-head in the deal, and who needs that aggro? Any anyway, then where would he drink?

So he comes out here. Flick of a lighter, sudden shock of crimson in the flame light, then just a small point of orange, rising, falling, rising, falling. Sometimes, if he's feeling the hunger deep inside, he draws the smoke in hard, and shadows flicker along the sharp angles of his face as the orange turns an angry red. Then the light dims back to a solitary point and starts it's laconic journey again, falling, rising, falling.

He'd started coming to the Avalanche bar a few weeks ago, drawn by the need to feel a part of something again. Since the Turks headquarters was no more (like the Turks, he supposed), there really was no home base where you could just...be. Where you were with your own, and you knew you were safe. As a result, Reno had found himself winding tighter and tighter, shield always up, flash personality always on. When he nearly decapitated Rude with his mag rod for the third time, they both knew they had to find a haven.

Now, even though he suspected Tifa really didn't like him hanging around much, he and Rude were both pretty much accepted here, even though some of the clientele would trash talk the Turks loudly when they saw him at his corner table. It happened more when it was just him; when Rude was around, they were quieter. He guessed two against the whole rest of the bar kind of evened up the odds, seeing as how they were Turks and all.

Reno the assassin. ShinRa's hand of death, he'd heard himself called. Names he was proud of once. Until the Sector Seven thing. Don't get him wrong, he had been damned proud that the Turks had accomplished their mission, even in the face of all of Avalanche trying to stop them. But when it was over, and he'd walked out into the ruined mess that had once been a living breathing part of Midgar, filled with life and families, homes and shops, and saw nothing but ravaged metal... He had found himself gaping at the sheer massiveness of the destruction. He had never really known how _much_ metal could twist and break. He remembered the sound, too, the scream of metal against metal, that went on forever and ever, and then...the silence. That huge hole in the complexly woven soundscape of the city. Of course, that was before the screams started; once that happened, the hole filled up and then some. He still woke up with those sounds in his ears sometimes. Maybe he always would.

All those people. Yeah, Avalanche had been in there somewhere. Intel had confirmed they were headquartered somewhere in the Sector Seven slums under the plate. But at what point, at what percentage of losses did you calculate a mission's success? One hundred civilians per Avalanche member? Two hundred? A thousand? Reno had dealt a lot of death in his time. But, like the man said, if he showed up at your door, chances are you'd done something to bring him there. So what had the kids in Sector Seven done to bring ShinRa's hand of death calling? How about their parents, who ran the little shops under the plate, trying to make enough to keep a roof over their families' heads, the mothers trying their best to fill their children's bellies? What had they done that brought Reno the assassin by for a visit?

Reno still marveled that there were people living down there under the plates who had never actually seen the sky. Well, whoever was left in Sector Seven sure had a good view of it now. Ah, who was he kidding? There wasn't anyone left. Anyone who had been under the plate when it dropped was still under it. And they weren't ever going to see the sky, ever. And for what? Black ops. Turns out the point hadn't been to finally crush the Avalanche threat. Nope. ShinRa had slaughtered thousands of their own people, crushed the life out of an entire sector of Midgar, just so they could place the blame on Avalanche, to turn the tide of public opinion back in their favor. It was a _publicity stunt_.

Whups, wind was picking up. A few random drops fell from the sky, explained why his face was suddenly wet.

Reno lifted the cigarette to his lips one more time, then threw it to the ground and crushed it under his heel. He headed back inside. He needed another drink. Or six.

He was still looking for the magic number that would let him sleep through the night again.

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**A/N:** Everyone, without exception that I have been able to find, ignores the Sector Seven slaughter in FFVII when they write Reno. Come to think of it, so does S/E, in everything else they've ever written him into. Strange.

I intend to hold him accountable.


End file.
